Nobody Saw No One (3 page)

I tighten my grip on Alfi’s hand, paste a grin across my VDU, and we step inside.

Unbelievable.

It
is
a real business, a proper shop wi’ shop assistants wearing matching yellow shirts with a
Cash Counters
logo and nametags and all. Customers browsing what’s on offer.

All kinds of electrical stuff, laptops, mobile phones, digital cameras.

Byron won’t let go o’ me hand. Them light fingers of his have a cage fighter’s grip.

He drags us further in, points at the wall, at a sign:

Cash Counters cashes cheques and gives loans at affordable rates.

They buy things as well as sell ’em, but only from people wi’ proof of ID and address.

And look:

Cash Counters is a member of the Consumer Finance Association and is regulated by the Office of Fair Trading.

And there’s more signs all over the walls o’ the shop.
Cash Counters is the First Choice for a Fair Deal.

Another sign on the wall says
SMILE, YOU’RE ON TV.

I smile. And Byron loosens his grip on me hand.

We wander through towards the back. The shop assistants are watching us from the corners o’ their eyes. I spot Byron making eye contact with ’em, but none of ’em greets us or even shows that they’ve seen us. But the customers all stare, probably ’cos I brought me pong in with us. I’d love a bath. A hot bath, after some hot food. Oh, this is all right. Defo the thing to do.

Citizen Digit dun’t say a word, but when he gets to the bank counter at the back, he nods at the bloke behind the glass, who bends down and clicks a button. Then the Citizen pushes at the big door next to it, and we’re through into the storeroom. Surely we en’t allowed? I step back, certain a Tenderness Care Assistant is going to dash out and yank me arm up behind me back, make me shoulder pop, march me off to a room with a door that locks. Then everything carries on right where it left off…

“Chill,” Byron whispers.

The bloke behind the counter steps out and smiles at him. Byron smiles back.

“Found us a new recruit?” the bloke says.

Byron shrugs. “Up to Virus, ain’t it?”

“Go on up.”

We make our way over piled-up boxes, gear that must be worth a bomb. I try not to brush against ’em ’cos me hoodie is so grimy. Byron – sorry, Citizen Digit – is kitted out in shiny new clothes. I’ve seen them shoes he’s wearing, through shop windows. They cost a packet. I look at his smart top with serious envy. I look like a dosser. Me heart jumps up against me chest. I’m feeling faint – again? – and I stick out a hand so I don’t lose balance.

But Byron has his arms under me pits, guiding us up the stairs, over soft carpet. A lad with his hoodie pulled down low so you can’t see his face is skulking at the top.

Byron says, “Oi! Dictiv—”

“Helpin’ hand with the fresh meat?” A voice comes from under the hood. Next thing, his hands are all over us. He en’t bearing me weight at all. He’s tickling us, all over, light like a feather.

“Knock it off—” says Byron.

“He’s needin’ help stayin’ upright. True?” The tickler cuts Byron short.

“Too right. Practise your dipping another time. Meet Predictiv Tex,” Byron mutters to us. “So called—”

“’Cos he states it straight. So?” His voice is weedy, but his tone is all Rough Kid. “Instant messagin’. No wasteman Digit time.” I can’t understand what he’s going on about. He tugs at me arms, rotten breath in me face. He’s all shadow, determined I don’t see his features.

There’s a door at the top. I can hardly lift me eyelids. I’m done in. Byron kicks at it, a musical rhythm, his hands not free to knock. The door swings open and we tumble in.

“Play nice,” says Predictiv Tex, slamming the door behind us.

“Well, well.” I hear a voice, all lah-di-dah, like a Senior Case Worker. “Citizen Digit himself. And what luxury items have you brought back home this time?”

“A friend. He’s malnutritious, ain’t he?” Digit drops us into a big, soft sofa.

“Is he indeed?” says the voice, all treacly. “Then he’s come to the right place.”

I look up, see a white face, soft and smooth like an advert for soap, wi’ smiling, pearly teeth. Big green eyes, twinkling down, like a cat’s. A hand reaches towards us, whiffing of air freshener, fingernails clipped, neat.

He’s wearing a suit. And a tie!

Byron has set us up. He’s Social Services, in’t he? The shop is a front for the SS!

The hand hovers in front of us.

I look to Byron. How could he? But he’s nodding at us, dead keen.

He expects me to shake it. Don’t I know better than that?

“Hello, little soldier.” The tip o’ this bloke’s tongue flicks against his lips, looking for a fly to catch. “My name is Virus. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Suddenly he don’t look like the SS no more.

To be brutally truthful, Alfi looks like he’s going to poop his panties, which going by the smell of him will be the second time in twenty-four hours. Virus hates getting his hands dirty. I most definitely should have left Squealer-Boy where I found him.

But then Virus goes on to say the magic words. “The Citizen informs me you’re feeling a tad peckish. What say I have one of my boys cook you a Full English? I gather that’s what you young people have a taste for.”

He sees me dribbling too, like I’m Captain of the Salivation Army, and says, “And you, Digit, and you.” He leans in. “You’ve done well,” he whispers, for my ears only.

Have I though? Alfi’s fixing me with his fiercest stare. “It dun’t matter what – I won’t go back to Tenderness. I won’t let ’em take us.”

So that’s his beef and gravy. He thinks Virus is an Authoritariac, on account of the sharpness of his suit. He’s learned over the years to distrust any Groan in a suit. It’s understandable really.

“Virus ain’t like that.” I offer reassurance. Last thing I need is Alfi getting in a flap and blabbing about everything. “He’s like us. Only big. Don’t be fooled by the stylishness of his threads, Virus is—”

“Virus is a believer in free enterprise.” The Great Manager cuts over the top of me. “He believes that if you have fine things to offer, then the world has fine things to offer back. And you look like the kind of young man who has plenty to offer.” He sits on the sofa next to Alfi, not too close, so as not to brush against his grimes. “What’s your name, young fellow?”

Alfi throws me a disconcertified look. He’s recollecting all my watchful words about never naming names, certainly never naming your own name. It’s as bad as handing yourself in. It’s why we use falsies – me, Virus, my good companion Predictiv Tex, all the rest of us. You give them your name, you’re signing yourself over.

Put it this way. Rev up your Search Engine and tap in the words
Citizen Digit
. What’s going to flash up at you? Nothing about my good self, that’s for sure. Because Citizen Digit don’t have no online presence, does he? Therefore, no visibility. On the other hand, tap in the words
Byron
…….. (hah-ha! Didn’t think I was going to give myself away that easily, did you?) and you’ll get my whole Horrible History. Byron’s history, leastways. All fed into hard drives and weaved round the World Wide Web by Authoritariacs everywhere. Once you’re online, they’ve collared you.

Which is why Citizen Digit is officially offline.

So why Alfi Spar is looking to me to guide him in his answer is beyond me. Even so, I endeavour a favour –
another
one – by not saying
Don’t tell him it’s Alfi Spar!
Insteadily, I give him a hint. “Go on, new boy, show some mannerisms. Give the gentleman a name.”

Behind his eyes, I can picture Alfi’s peanut brain cracking open its shell in an effort to
think.

I think he’s thinking of Full English: egg, bacon, beans, sausage, et cetera, et cet.

He stretches out his arm and shakes Virus by the hand. “My name is Alfi Spar,” he says.

Sucker.

For a millisec, Virus’s eyes widen a little, as if he’s surprised. Then he gives a little clap. “Charming,” he smiles. He wipes his fingers clean with a tissue and clicks his fingers. “Predictiv! Your presence, please.”

In strolls Tex.

Wherever you are, whatever your doings, Tex is always just the other side of the door.

“Mr Dictiv,” says Virus, “have a word with Bones, and—”

“Mass fry-up for the crew, yo?” says Predictiv Tex. “I’m on it.”

Virus fixes his gaze on Alfi, like he’s trying to read him. Which ain’t hard, ’cos if Alfi Spar was a book he’d be
Nursery Rhymes For Numpties
. Put it this way: his thoughts come in
LARGE PRINT,
don’t they? Virus can see Alfi’s starvatious and zausted, which is exactly how he likes it.

“While we’re waiting for the food, young man,” he suggests, “how about a hot bath and some clean clothes?”

Smart. Virus knows Tex will have had his fiddly fingers in and out of Alfi’s pockets, rummaging for tiddlebits. But Virus wants a closer look. Alfi’s already surrendered his name, free of charge; let’s see what else he has on offer.

Alfi’s directed to our luxury bathroom and dumps his toxicated threads in a pile outside the door. It’s the Digit himself who’s instructed to retrieve them, which ain’t nice, on account of Squealer-Boy’s old flakey poo, and who knows what. These fingers ain’t for dipping into that kind of dirt.

“Get Tex to do it,” I say.

Mistakenly stated, ain’t it? Virus’s fizzog twists and cracks like that flat screen did when I bumped into Alfi Spar. He jabs his Smartphone up at my cheek before I have time to back off, and he zaps me.

It catches me unawares. Lightning streaks across my cheekbone and knocks me to the floor. I’m spotting stars.

“I do apologize.” Virus’s lips sneer at me through the dazzlespots. My cheek is still burning. He fidgets with his phone, switching off its power. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear.”

No one knows how he’s done it, but Virus has added a special app to his smartphone, that gives a nasty surprise. A Zap App. He wipes the phone clean with his hankychief, cleaning off the Digit sweat.

He’s clear all right. The Digit ain’t had a zap from old Virus for quite a while now. The Good Citizen was forgetting himself. Answering back, like he was an equal, when he’s still only blessed with skinny kid muscles.

I stroke my fingers against my smarting cheek, back away.

“Digit,” Virus says. He produces a clean tissue, dabs it over his frown lines, magicking back his smile. “Come here.”

Smarting. Smarter now.

“Here, son.”

The Digit inches back towards where Virus is lounged on the sofa, all stately, like the Lady of the Manor. He pats the cushion next to him. “Sit.”

I do as I’m told. The zapper was set on low voltage. I’ve seen him once zap a drunken fist-swinger with enough juice to BBQ his flesh. It’s Virus’s specially constructed gizmo. A micro-cattle prod, to keep his boys docile. Citizen Digit has just enjoyed a warning zap.

I heed it.

He puts his arm round my shoulder and eases me towards him. He knows the Digit’s impeccable hygiene ain’t going to get no crumbles on his holy suit. He strokes my head, soft. Sighs.

“I wish you wouldn’t make me do that,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re the most talented of them all, Didge, you know that. You’ve done an excellent job with the new boy. Keep to the path you’re on, and you’ll do well in life. Very well.”

I’m biting my lip. The shock’s made my eyes moist. I grit my teeth at him.

He reaches inside his jacket pocket, slides out his smart leather wallet. Produces a twenty.

The Digit knows enough not to snatch at it. Virus holds it in front of my face for a few seconds, crisp and clean, like it’s been spat straight out of a cash machine, Queen Elizabeth’s fizzog twinkling out at me. He tucks it into my pocket, pats my head again.

“Go through his rags,” he repeats, full of kindliness this time. “Bring me what’s in them, then chuck them in the incinerator. And glue yourself to young Alfi Spar. Tight as you can. Do it well, Didgy-Boy, and you’ll see quite a few more of these.”

He pats the note nestling in my jacket pocket. Smiles gently, strokes his thumb lightly against my still-sizzling cheek, letting me know to be on my way.

Citizen Digit does as he’s told.

Even the Barrowcloughs never had a bathroom as smart as this. The bath is so big that when I stretched out I could almost swim the backstroke. It’s got a big brick of purple soap that smells like rich ladies. A fluffy white rug under me feet.

“Can I help you, sir?” I ask meself in the mirror. “Can I interest you in today’s special deal?”

I smell the fry-up that’s been cooking while I had me bath. The smell of Life. Life as it’s meant to be.

This bathroom is actually bigger than the Relaxation Room at Tenderness House.

Call-Me Norman forces you to relax at Tenderness.

Not that anyone ’ud ever believe it. And I tried to make them. Believe me, I tried.

So I ran. Ran here! I’m a
Cash Counter
now. Me and Citizen Digit. “Might I recommend our Payday Loan, sir? It’s a deal I think you may find rather attractive?”

I shampoo me hair. Scrub me fingernails. “Could I help you with that, madam?” Fresh undies. “No, please, madam, there’s no need to tip – Mr Virus looks after us here, exceedingly well indeed.”

I put on me grey trousers and a yellow
Cash Counters
polo-shirt.

Dead smart.

I’m off to eat now. I’m off to eat and then I’m off to sleep like a king.

Then I’m off to work.

Then I’m off to eat again.

Just watch us.

Eat, work and sleep. Then eat again.

Life.